


Reparations

by badpriestess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badpriestess/pseuds/badpriestess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach: Sherlock visits his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reparations

Bringing _The Sun_ into the Diogenes Club inevitably attracted some bemused glances, although thankfully the prohibition against speaking or even taking a more than passing interest in one’s fellow members discouraged actual inquiry.  In the week following his brother’s suicide, Mycroft scanned the miserable rag for anything related to Sherlock Holmes; he knew from experience that the tone of tabloids tended to reflect and inform the opinion of the idiotic population at large.

Unsurprisingly, the general consensus remained that Sherlock “Boffin” Holmes was in fact a fraud, had died in disgrace, and frankly good riddance to intolerably smug rubbish.  “Confirmed bachelor” John Watson could not be reached for comment — not by reporters, and not by Mycroft himself, who had made calls and sent cars in vain.  This was expected, given Mycroft’s rather key, if inadvertent, contribution to Sherlock’s downfall; Mycroft didn’t suppose John, stubbornly loyal even to Sherlock’s memory, would be persuaded to share the same oxygen with him for quite some time.  

Not for the first time in his life, Mycroft was increasingly oppressed by his own mind, which mechanically and mercilessly offered up every detail of his errors in judgment for repeated scrutiny.  He could feel himself becoming locked in an obsessive spiral of analysis, breaking down the elements of Moriarty’s scheme and at each point reminding himself that _he outmaneuvered you, he saw right through you, he made you do exactly what he wanted_.  Mycroft had his pride, and it was sorely wounded; Moriarty had swept their little chess match of wits, and all it had taken was patiently and insanely enduring weeks of torture while Mycroft moved exactly as Moriarty knew he would.  Mycroft was not accustomed to feeling intellectually inadequate — it was a _visceral_ thing, a viscous clench around his innards compounded by what his failure had cost.

If caring was a disadvantage, then Mycroft had exactly one point of weakness.  And now that man was dead.

He folded the day’s copy of _The Sun_ neatly along its crease and set it aside, his movements and expression carefully controlled even in this private room.  There was a crystal decanter of brandy on the sideboard, which was tempting, but Mycroft couldn’t summon the energy to rise and pour himself a drink.  Physical inertia, mental overdrive: a familiar pattern.  He might stay in this exact posture, fingers steepled beneath his chin, for hours while his thoughts spun their entrapping web.

One could say that fate, if Mycroft believed such a thing existed, had other plans.  The door opened without a knock, as soundlessly as everything else in the club.  A tall, bearded rail of a man stood on the threshold; within a second of scanning the intruder with a practiced gaze — _height approximately 1.8 meters, athletic stance, state of clothing consistent with three consecutive days’ wear, awkwardly fitted so likely obtained in haste, wig and synthetic beard_ — Mycroft sat up straight in his chair, hands clenching his knees.

“Hello, brother mine,” Sherlock said, tone laced with bitter mockery.  He snapped the lock on the door and removed his thin disguise, revealing his battered face.

“Back from the dead, I see,” Mycroft observed with a calmness he did not feel.  In fact his pulse was hammering.  “You don’t look much the worse for wear, considering.”

“It would appear I’m not easy to kill, even by my own hand.  Rather useful, actually.”

Sherlock began to prowl the room, casting his piercing eyes over everything but Mycroft.

“I imagine it is,” Mycroft murmured.  “I don’t suppose you want to share _how_ …”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said, and spun around to face him, hands clasped behind his back.  “Especially since, for the time being, I’ll have to remain…not-so-dearly departed, it seems.”  He raised an eyebrow at Mycroft’s copy of _The Sun_ , with its gleefully derogatory headline.

“Don’t tell me you have a newfound concern for public opinion.  How hard _did_ you hit that head of yours?”

“Hard enough,” Sherlock said with a grimace, and poured himself a healthy glass of brandy.

“Have you seen a doctor?” Mycroft asked delicately, and his brother gave him a sharp look.

“It’s in John’s best interest that I don’t contact him.  And don’t pretend that’s not what you meant — you’re transparent.  Also a _bloody_ _idiot_ ; I’m perfectly aware where ‘Brook’ got his exhaustive account of my personal life, _by the way_.”

It was bound to come to this sooner or later.  Mycroft cleared his throat.

“I am…deeply sorry, Sherlock.  At the time it seemed like the only—“

“Oh, shut up.  He set you up brilliantly, didn’t he?”

Mycroft was silent; it was as good as an admission.  Sherlock chuckled darkly.

“Oh, yes.  Call me childish all you like, but you’re no better, are you?  Someone out-anticipate Mycroft Holmes?  Impossible!  _Naturally_ he’s the only one who could get to Moriarty!  What are a few damning details in the face of national security?  _Idiot_ ,” Sherlock spat.

“Yes, _all right_ ,” Mycroft snapped.  “And if you think I haven’t roundly abused myself for it—“

“You think I _care_ about your regrets?” Sherlock slammed his glass down.  “My _life_ , Mycroft, is over, whether I’m breathing or not!  Even if I could salvage my credibility, revealing I’m still alive would be the end of everyone important to me.  I can’t go back to Baker Street.  I can’t…I can’t go back to _John_.”

Sherlock stopped his rant abruptly, and the ensuing silence was terrible.

“I can’t,” Sherlock repeated, his voice rough.  “If I live, he dies.  That’s what Moriarty promised me.”

“I see,” Mycroft said softly, easily integrating this new information into the scenario of Sherlock’s apparent suicide.  He cast around for options, constructing and discarding several in seconds.  Build a new identity for Sherlock — no, he was too recognizable.  Set him up in secret — he’d go mad within the week from the limitations that would require.

“You have to disappear,” he said after a moment: the only solution.  “For the time being, at any rate.”

“Yes, _obviously_.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Mycroft said at once.  “Yes — all the funds you’ll need, phone, documentation, everything.  I’ll even retain your rooms, if you like,” he added in a burst of almost desperate generosity.

“…Yes, do that,” Sherlock decided after a moment’s consideration.  “It’s a prime flat.  And _don’t_ let Mrs. Hudson throw out my skull, although she might hold onto it anyway.”

“Sentiment,” they both remarked, and shared a bitter smile.

“And…” Sherlock began, but Mycroft cut him off.

“Of course I’ll watch out for John.”

“Yes, well.  Be a _tad_ more careful with him than you were with me, won’t you?”

The comment stung; it couldn’t be helped, considering all the unacknowledged time, anxiety, and aggravation that had gone into looking out for Sherlock — which in the end hadn’t protected him at all.  Mycroft had to force his expression back into stoicism while Sherlock gazed at him unwaveringly.

“I’ll make this right,” Mycroft said — ground out, really, through a growing knot in his throat.  “I promise you…in time I’ll sort this out, all this…nonsense.”  He waved at the tabloid.  

It was as close to _Forgive me_ as Mycroft could manage.

“I believe it,” Sherlock said, and his expression softened slightly in a way it never had before where Mycroft was concerned.  “Other than John, you’re the only one who knows me, now.  And you’re the only one I can tell.”

Mycroft nodded.  He dealt in secrets; he would die with this one if it came to that, die before betraying Sherlock again.  

The meeting abruptly turned businesslike; Sherlock told Mycroft how to reach him — through the homeless network, naturally — and Mycroft promised to have all the necessary resources for his disappearance assembled in a few day’s time, at most.  

“Then I’ll be in touch,” Mycroft concluded, rising from the chair as Sherlock reached for his wig.  “As long as you keep moving, you should be safe abroad.”

Sherlock grunted absently, his mind clearly moving elsewhere — to preparations, planning a route, looking forward rather than at what he would be leaving behind.  Before he could don the wig and beard again, Mycroft took hold of his arm.  Sherlock glanced from his hand to Mycroft’s face, almost wary; physical contact was a rarity between them, after all.  The feeling of warm, solid flesh under Mycroft’s palm, substantial proof that Sherlock was really _there_ , temporarily robbed him of words.

“Sherlock, just…for god’s sake, take care of yourself,” he managed at length.

Sherlock hesitated, then covered Mycroft’s hand briefly with his own.

“Yes.  You, too.”

“Off with you,” Mycroft said softly, releasing him.  Sherlock was gone as suddenly as he’d appeared.  In the ensuing quiet, Mycroft dropped inelegantly back in his chair and brought his hands to his face.  And laughed.

He fed _The Sun_ to the fireplace before he left the club.

**Author's Note:**

> I may rework this a bit in the future once I have a better handle on Sherlock and Mycroft's voices - it's hard to write for characters who are much smarter than I am! I'd welcome any suggestions for improvement, and thanks for reading.


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